Blood Thistle
by Zaisana
Summary: *M rated* Cross faction Romance! I wrote this a while back for another site. I grew very attatched to my characters and it ended up going further than I expected. Looking for comments! Note: The story has been completed but I will be uploading it in part
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note:

I originally wrote this for Darknest, and quite a few people enjoyed it. I learned a lot in the process of writing it, so its certainly not perfect, but I think you can see the improvement from the beginning to the end. Anyway its certainly no masterpiece but it is a bit of fun. I hope you enjoy it, and please leave me a comment!

Chapter 1

"Za! ...Zahira!" The yell rang out – the chestnut-haired beauty Nerezza came padding swiftly after her to press into Zahira's hand some gold and a note. She pressed a kiss against her cheek too. Her fragrance was warm and flowery.

Zahira walked on her bare feet, her toes curling slightly with each step as she moved over the hard, cold stones. Finally she reached the Sunfury spire. She nodded and smiled to the guards that lined the entrance, and greeted a few by name. They stared after her as she passed.

Every day during her precious morning hours Zahira would travel to the Undercity. Being first among her peers, she was allowed to move somewhat more freely during her spare time – as long as she didn't stray to unguarded areas. Pulling her hood up, she shielded her face and eyes before using the translocation orb. The general public was not fit to look upon her.

She quickly reached her goal and purchased wine and sugared fruit from the confectioner, who knew her by sight. Visiting the general merchant, she picked up some items she'd ordered, and Nerezza's package as well, taking a swift peek at the contents. Chocolates... typical.

Her errands complete, Zahira stepped out into the cool morning air. She always ate here in the mornings. It was the only time she could be alone in peace, with no curious passersby. 'Everyone in their right mind, she thought to herself, is asleep at this hour. She sat carefully in her usual place, an old stone bench overgrown with vines and weeds.

Unwrapping her breakfast she began to thoughtfully chew. Her food was held gracefully in one hand, while she opened her other bundle. Her new writing set fairly gleamed before her. Absently, she picked out one of the enchanted implements – they had cost her more than a months' wage – and tore a scrap of parchment. She tested with a few small scribbles, then wrote in her elegant letters:

Greetings!

First in Thalassian, then underneath in orcish.

Satisfied with the performance of the new tools she packed them away. Pushing the last bite of fruit into her mouth she tucked the scrap of parchment between two loose stones in the bench next to her. Her long red skirt swung gently from side to side as she padded softly back to the city. She was back home in barely more than a minute - walking down from the spire, looking furtively around to check if anyone was watching, before shifting into a run.

Nerezza was sitting cross-legged on cushions in the front room waiting for her, and gave her another kiss in return for the errand. "Mistress wants to see you," Nerezza said with a wry smile. "I think you have work today."

Zahira nodded her thanks and turned, sweeping past three other elven women who played cards together, giggling and chatting amongst themselves. She swept her hood back as she moved, revealing her dark curls and bright green eyes. She shrugged out of her cloak as she climbed the stairs and made her way to the Mistress' rooms.

"Lord Tholanis has requested your presence," the Mistress told her without preamble. "He entertains Magisters this eve."

"Yes, Mistress," Zahira answered, her voice low and soft. "I shall prepare." Curtsying low she spun and left the room.

The joy of the morning was gone. Zahira slowly stepped down the carpeted hall, snapping her fingers at a servant girl as she passed. The girl rushed off for a moment, bringing back with her a young male. Zahira tossed them her cloak, and they followed her at a respectable distance.

The bath had already been prepared for her. She shooed the servants away and they stood at the back of the room while Zahira soaped and rinsed herself. Sinking indulgently under the surface of the water she shook out her long hair, letting it plaster wetly to her back as she rose.

When she had bathed to her satisfaction the young male rushed forward to cover her, and led her to a couch where she lay on her stomach. The servants proceeded to massage Zahira rubbing fragrant oils into every part of her skin. They painted her toe and fingernails. Then they combed out her hair to let it dry, bringing her wine to sip and sweet bread to eat. Then they left her.

Zahira sang quietly to herself, practicing a new song, as she waited for the dresser. Eventually she arrived – a perpetually rushed, doe-eyed young elf. She assisted Zahira in choosing her outfit and tightly lacing the bodice.

The same routine she went through almost every day.

Every child of the Blood Thistle had her talent, and it was for these that their patrons chose. Zahira was somewhat unique in that she had two extraordinary abilities – her singing voice, and one other, less public quality. It was for this reason that she was the most oft-demanded, and highest earner among her peers.

Contrary to the belief of some, they were not common prostitutes – their fees were for entertainment of the non carnal variety. It was left to the individual woman to choose, and should the agreed-upon contract be broken in any way, the patron would never be welcomed again, often finding themselves shunned by many factions of Silvermoon society. This was obviously extremely bad for one's reputation.

Choose though they often did – some for extra money, and some for pleasure alone. Zahira was different yet again, with her particular qualities.

Tonight as always, she wore her long hair down, spilling in smoky waves over her shoulders. She carried, pinned low on her bodice, two long ebony hair pins. Her gown was in red and gold – tonight she would be entertaining city officials, and they enjoyed seeing on her the traditional colors of the Sin'dorei. She carried nothing else with her, but tucked within her bodice was her tiny packet of blood-thistle, the namesake of her house and often given out to guests. Such things often came in handy.

An ornately dressed servant greeted her at the door of the Magister's estat, and Zahira pushed back her hood carefully, taking off her cloak and handing it to him. She lightly laid her hand on his forearm and he led her to a banquet room, around which were seated six male Sin'dorei and two female.

"Magister Tholanis," the servant indicated the elf sitting at the head of the table. "Mistress Delryna, Lord Seth and Lord Nelan, Blood Knight Adepts. Magisters Malkis and Selestina. Lord Garrett and Lord Telethryn." He bowed graciously and turned to leave the room.

Zahira smiled around the room as the guests all appraised her, her crimson-painted lips turning coyly up at the corners. Finally Tholanis stood to indicate the seat beside him – reserved for Zahira. He was an imposing Sin'dorei in his heavy robes and dark hair, his strong, clean-shaven face handsome if stern. He gave an impression of age, though he looked outwardly as young as any of the seated elves.

Zahira padded on her bare feet to accept the proffered chair, pausing so that the Magister could kiss her hand. His lips were cool and his breath tickled the back of her fingers. "I am most pleased you thought to invite me," she said, sinking carefully into the chair, rearranging her skirts.

"Certainly, my dear." Tholanis smiled, his white teeth shining. "I have been trying to find opportunity to meet you as a matter of face, since I hear so many of my colleagues speak of the Blood Thistle – and yourself, of course."

She smiled softly again, lowering her eyes modestly as she moved to take the wine bottle from the table before them. Carefully she poured the Magister's wine, and then one for herself.

The evening progressed typically, the guests falling into discussion of politics and economics, which Zahira found dreadfully dull. She busied herself by unobtrusively pouring wine when she saw a glass empty, and calling for servants when the food or drink went dry.

Finally many of the guests had turned to their own private conversations, and the Magister turned to Zahira. He had consumed more than his fair share of wine, and she smelled it on his breath, not unpleasantly, as he leaned closer to speak with her. "My dear," he drawled, "I hope we haven't bored you with our conversation this evening.

"Not at all Sir," Zahira lied, and he chuckled. Whether he saw through her or not, she was unsure.

"Please, call me Aran." He spoke, giving her his first name. Many powerful citizens of Silvermoon chose to go by surname only, so the gesture was intended to be one of goodwill.

Zahira smiled genuinely. "To be honest... Aran... I am not one for politics." She took a dainty sip of wine, staring into his green eyes over the rim of her glass.

"Understandable, my dear. Sometimes, I admit, I bore myself."

He was pleasant enough, as they conversed. As the night wore on, the guests gradually said their goodbyes, leaving in pairs or alone. Aran Tholanis shared one more drink with Zahira, and they laughingly crossed arms to feed each other.

"It is late," he finally said. "Shall I arrange for an escort home, my lovely?" He leaned close, his eyes searching, and she felt his hand come to rest on her thigh, under the table.

Zahira looked into his face and saw the intense look there - his grin rather wolfish, his eyes sparkling. She was in indecision for a moment, light-headed with ale, but his hand squeezed her thigh a little more roughly, and she blinked with a slow smile.

Reaching slowly down over her body she found the hair pins, stuck tight to her bodice. Easing them out with two long fingers, she raised her arms above her head, gathering up her hair. Aran lifted his hand from her, smiling slyly now, enjoying the sight. She piled her dark curls atop her head and twisted, fastening them expertly there with the ebony pins.

Then she lowered her arms and gracefully arched her neck, twisting her head to the side slightly and revealing her secret, that which made her unique.

The Magister wasted no time touching her. He moved his chair closer, making a harsh scraping sound over the floor, and moved his body closer still. He lifted his arm, and his fingers lightly brushed the base of her ear, ever-so-slowly trailing downward and circling around. With a look of concentration and curiosity, he pressed the briefest of touches on the small bump at the base of Zahira's neck.

Her mouth fell open and she immediately began to breathe heavily. She still watched him as his look turned from curiosity to amusement, and desire darkened his eyes. His fingers still caressed her neck, until she fairly writhed in her seat. Finally, he rose, pulling her into his arms and pressing his body close. Zahira threw her own arms around him gratefully, as he pushed her roughly against the table and fumbled at her clothing. His lips found her mouth and she moaned, thrusting her tongue against his, furiously kissing him, tasting the wine on his breath.

Aran pushed and lifted her, displacing wine glasses on the table as he seated her there. He bent to kiss her neck as his hand raised her skirt, caressing his way up her leg. The heavy fabric now up around her thighs, Zahira was free to bring her legs up, encircling him gently as he insistently explored her body. Finally he turned his attention to his own clothing, swiftly undoing his belt and dropping it so that it fell to the floor with a dull sound. She could not see what he did, parting his robes somehow, but felt his erect phallus press against her hip as she pulled him close again. His head dropped momentarily to her cleavage, and one of his hands found the place on her neck again, manipulating it rather crudely.

Nonetheless Zahira cried out in pleasure as he stroked her skin – and before the cry had died on the air he was forcing himself roughly inside her. He grunted his pleasure as he began to furiously pump into her, pulling her toward him with each thrust of his hips. She grasped him tighter with her legs, gasping as he mercilessly fucked her. Her arms were around his neck again. She let her head fall back, her mouth open as she began to feel warmth spread over her, her own pleasure finally growing.

But with a hard thrust and a grunt, Aran's body tensed, and she felt him throb inside her as he released his seed. He slowed, then stopped as he lay his head against her shoulder, panting for breath. Zahira panted too – her body crying out for release. She closed her eyes, willing herself not to move, hoping he would think of her need.

She made a soft whimper as he disengaged from her, and he kissed her again, gently. "Thank you my dear," he whispered. "That was lovely." He stroked the hair out of her face, and rearranging his robes, pulled away entirely.

Zahira let her own dress fall around her legs as her feet lowered to the floor. Her chest was still heaving with harsh breaths. Aran swept out of the room, and Zahira closed her eyes. She shivered as she felt the wetness of his essence begin to slowly drip down her thigh.

She stayed right where she was until sometime later, when the servant returned with her cloak.

"I shall add the cleaning of your gown to the bill," the Mistress told her impassively, late in the evening. "And here -" she pushed across her desk a small package, wrapped in red silk. "His tribute." Zahira immediately lifted the corner of the fabric and peeked inside the small box that lay within. Jewelery. She nodded. It would sell well enough. She stood, straightening her skirt, and nodded to the older elf.

"Goodnight, Mistress." She said.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Today, everything was grey, a mist covering the land and obscuring the gates of the Undercity from view, even from where the young priest Iskander stood.

He panted rapidly, his chest heaving as he bent double, clutching at his knees. He still held the reins of his stubborn horse in his white-knuckled hands.

"You... silly animal!" he admonished. "We come by here every day. Why does it scare you every time?" Finally pity broke his stern look and he reached up to pet the frightened beast on the nose. "Here." He led her to an old twisted tree and tethered her there, letting her rest momentarily. Sighing, he reached for his fallen staff and plopped down onto an old stone bench.

No one was around, but he pulled his old travel cloak around him nonetheless, drawing the hood up and shielding his face. From his belt he took a water pouch, and drinking deeply he sighed again. A white glint caught his eye, between two stones, and he flicked it absently with a finger. It became dislodged. A piece of parchment. Drinking again, Iskander flipped it open.

Unknown Thalassian words, and underneath an orcish greeting. He smiled mildly. The words were elegant and feminine. He wondered briefly about the Sin'dorei who must have written it. About to toss it away, he had an afterthought. Instead he opened a side pocket of his bag and found one of his old pieces of drawing charcoal. He pushed his glasses up higher on his nose.

'Hello There.' He wrote in Orcish. 'How does the day find you?'

He wrinkled his nose. His orcish wasn't the best. It had been a long while since he'd practiced. He folded the paper into a little round shape and put it back where he'd found it. Rising to his feet and replacing the water skin on his belt, he smiled to himself. "Let's be off!" He said to his horse. His voice was melodious, his words well-pronounced common.

It was getting late in the evening when Iskander, weary and dirty, finally arrived back in Elwyn forest. His steed was tired as well, walking slowly with drooped head as they made their way down the road to Stormwind.

Suddenly high cries of terror brought the priest out of his daydream, and he jerked sharply on the reins drawing the horse to a stop. The cry rang out again and he cursed – then covered his mouth remorsefully. Jumping down from the saddle he dragged the reluctant beast in the direction of the noise.

It didn't take long before he saw in the gloom a young woman being accosted by thieves. There were two – common rogues by the look of them, with dirty clothes and crude masks covering their faces. At the priest's not-so-stealthy approach they whirled around. One of them had hold of the girl, a young beauty, wild-eyed with terror.

"Help!" She shrieked when she caught sight of Iskander, before the rogue slapped a hand over her mouth.

Iskander gripped tighter to his weapon. He had already seen much combat today. These two thugs would make little difference. "I think you should let her go." He said quietly.

"Hand over all your coin or she dies." The thug answered, while his friend snarled and brandished his daggers menacingly.

Iskander sighed, and adjusted his glasses again. "Fine. If that's the way you want to play it," he said. As he spoke the last word, holy energy hit the rogue, knocking he and the girl to the ground. She recovered more quickly than he did, scrambling to her feet and bolting around to hide behind the priest. The rogue writhed on the ground. His friend was evidently conflicted – but not for long. Staring at the fallen rogue's body then back at Iskander, he turned tail to flee.

The priest stepped over the legs of the remaining unfortunate thug, bending down to grasp a handful of his long greasy hair. Yanking him to his feet as he squealed, Iskander planted a boot firmly to his backside, sending him stumbling off the road into a bush. He seemed to recover himself and began to run, hastily making his escape.

The girl came up behind the priest and he felt her warm fingers grasp his shoulders. Turning, he smiled into her pretty face. "Oh Sir..." She said breathily, "how ever can I thank you?"

"Oh – it's no problem really. Just doing my job." He dug his staff into the dirt, leaning on it for a moment. "Would you like me to escort you to Stormwind, milady? The roads, as you have seen, are not safe to walk alone."

She nodded, biting her lower lip. Iskander recovered his horse and helped the girl up into the saddle, swinging himself up behind her. The horse snorted unenthusiastically, but her master kicked her into a gentle trot.

They slowed at the gates of the city and the girl raised her voice, turning her head slightly to speak to the priest. "What is the name of my rescuer?"

He smiled. "I am Iskander. And you?"

"Melissa." And she leaned back against him, pressing her soft body close. Iskander shifted a little, leaning back to give her more space.

They dismounted in the street, and he bowed low. "There you go, milady." And he smiled, adjusting his pack on his shoulder and preparing to leave.

"Wait! Sir -" She sidled up to him, smiling broadly again. "You haven't told me what I can do to repay you!" She grabbed his hand, moving closer. Her eyes traveled down over his body. "Isn't there... anything?"

Iskander paused, observing her heaving chest and wide eyes. 'Poor thing,' he thought, 'must still be quite scared.' "Truly," he said aloud, "no payment is necessary. Just keep yourself safe from now on." He placed a hand over hers briefly, before turning away. Behind him, the girl frowned, her arms dropping uselessly to her sides.

The priest led his horse slowly through the street, heading toward the Stormwind Cathedral. There were few people out by now, but they all made way respectfully as he nodded and smiled to everyone. As he crossed the canal he reached up to give the weary animal a soft pat on the neck. "My!" he said to the horse, "What a nice young lady."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Hello There. How does the day find you?_

_I did not expect an answer. I was merely practicing my writing. Do you ask of my fortune on this day, or the day on which you wrote? In any case, today is a good day._

_I am glad to hear it. Do you pass by here often?_

_Every day at least once. Who are you?_

_I am no one important. To tell you would only erode any sense of mystery I may have cultivated by this point. And you?_

_I am afraid I cannot tell you._

_I apologize for my jest. I tell you truly – my name is Iskander. I am a simple priest. Now will you not return the favor?_

_I spoke the truth when I said I should not tell you sir. But now let me just give you a name. Zahira. I suppose you would call me an entertainer._

_Pleased to... meet you, Zahira! Who do you entertain?_

_Politicians, nobles, guild masters, Magisters. Others I must not mention. _

_I think so far you are winning in terms of mystery. _

_Quite possibly. One could say it is my job._

_Your job? Are you a spy?_

Zahira covered her mouth with a dainty hand and giggled. The silly exchange of notes over the week had brightened her morning, and she wondered if she should reply that she was indeed a spy, enticing more interesting responses from her mystery correspondent. She put the pen to her lower lip, thinking, before turning over the piece of parchment to reply.

_'Hardly. A simple entertainer, that is all.'_

A pair of forsaken women strolled past, eyeing the Sin'dorei curiously. She pulled her heavy hood lower over her eyes and hastily folded the note, shoving it between the loose stones. It was getting too late to be out.

Briellana, Calanthia and Nerezza were seated in a wide circle, a meal spread before them on the thick rug. They were teasing Leander, the house's one male member. It was his habit to blush prettily, and the women constantly took advantage. They doted on him though, and he took it all in good humor. Many a male Sin'dorei professed to envy Leander's position.

Zahira reclined on soft pillows near them, quietly reading a book. The house's male servant stood by her feet slowly waving a large fan of hawkstrider feathers. She enjoyed the cool breeze wafting over her, bringing with it the fragrance of incense and pipe smoke.

The Mistress came out to walk among them. She was a tall Sin'dorei woman with golden hair fading to grey. "Nerezza," she said, "you and Zahira will dance tonight. There is a wedding between two nobles, and you are to entertain afterward."

Zahira smiled, answering in the affirmative. She always enjoyed working with Nerezza, as she was loud and could keep any room entertained. They were often paired for dance as well – Nerezza's best skill, even if it were not Zahira's.

This day the two of them dressed in identical gold. Nerezza wore her hair in an elaborate style – Zahira of course could not. Her ebony pins she tucked within her golden belt, clearly visible, as she knew her patrons liked to see them.

In the evening their escort arrived. They walked in their bare feet behind, with as much distance between their guard as they could get away with. The shadows were long in the streets and the stony path cold.

Suddenly, Nerezza gripped her friend's arm. "Za!" She stage-whispered. Zahira stumbled ungracefully to a halt, and glared at her friend for causing her misstep. It took a moment before their guard paused, turning his head to see what they were up to.

"Oh – just give us a moment, will you honey?" Nerezza purred, blowing him a quick kiss. He straightened a little, and turned away, hands on weapon, scanning the area.

"Za -" Nerezza repeated. "I just have to tell you."

"What is it?" Zahira hissed, wresting her hand from her friend's grasp.

Nerezza didn't seem to notice Zahira's frustration. She clasped her hands under her chin as if she were begging. "I'm in love!"

Zahira's mouth dropped open.

"Close your mouth! Are you a commoner?" Nerezza scolded, and Zahira did so. "He was a patron," she continued, lowering her voice, leaning close and grinning wickedly. "He is so kind and caring. He writes me poetry!" She bounced up and down a little.

"You know you can't do this..." Zahira said, shocked. "What will you do when he can't afford to pay your fee?"

"Oh Za – sometimes you are so naïve. I've been sneaking out!" And she grabbed her arm again, dragging her hastily toward their impatient guard.

Zahira's mind reeled. Nerezza had always taken joy in her work, and in the arms of a variety of males and females both. Fixating on one in particular was completely out of character for her. "Will I meet him?" She finally asked, as they neared their destination, climbing stone steps.

"Shh!" Nerezza berated, giggling. Anklets jingled on their legs as the two stepped up the stairs. The doors were wide open and people streamed in and out.

Zahira usually enjoyed these parties, where she could mingle and dance without having to devote all her time to one person alone. She danced with anyone who asked her, spent some time carrying drink trays and being dandled on the laps of nobles. She flirted and drank, growing giddy and light headed. She and Nerezza performed their dance together later in the evening, amid admirers and jealous stares.

Late in the night Zahira became aware that her friend had gone. She had a good idea where – or at least who with. There was nothing she could do for the present. Furthermore, if she had been in the habit of admitting things to herself, she may have realized that she was more than a little jealous.

Morosely she sat cross legged by a warm fireplace, frustrated with being left by herself. She knew she should be mixing with people, but just couldn't find any joy in it at the moment.

"I never thought to see a child of the Blood Thistle looking so alone." Came a deep male voice, gravelly and rather expressionless.

Zahira twisted around with a look of surprise, caught unprepared. Catching herself, she put a shy smile on her face. "My sister has already left for the night," she explained, "and no one seems to want to keep me company." She raised her glass to her lips and took a slow drink. As she did so, she examined the Sin'dorei standing before her, blinking several times in surprise as her eyes traveled upwards.

She had expected to see a noble or perhaps a Magister. She had not expected to behold a fully armed and armored Blood Knight in all his regalia. He wore the standard red mail and black tabard, a Blood Knight's cloak on his back and hanging over one shoulder. He was older, and scarred, and frowning.

Zahira had a vague feeling that she had seen him before, but knew she had never entertained him. She had a fair knowledge of the more powerful inhabitants of Silvermoon, and she didn't doubt he fit into this category – which is why the fact that she couldn't identify him intrigued her.

He towered above her and she began to feel disconcerted, so she rose as gracefully as she could to her feet. "I don't believe we have met," she said. "I am Zahira." She waited for him to move, ready to offer him her hand to kiss.

He simply stared at her, until she began to wonder if she should just walk away. Then he raised his chin. "You may call me Kalandris."

"Well met, Kalandris!" She said, repeating his name in order to commit it to memory. "May I offer to pour you a drink?"

He stared at her again, then grunted. "I don't plan to stay long. I am only passing through. Paying my respects to distant relatives." His face remained impassive.

"Well," Zahira said, trying to appear unphased, "that explains why you are dressed for war." She saw his eyes briefly flicker down as if he were checking his own attire. "Yet," she continued, "you are here now. Will you not take some refreshment before you move on?"

The Blood Knight seemed to think it over before nodding sharply. Zahira smiled and began to move toward a table, seeking a place to sit. There was a private corner with low chairs, candle-lit and shadowy. She wondered if she should take his arm to lead him, as she normally would, but thought better of it. In any case, he led rather than followed, and seated himself with another grunt and a clatter of armor.

Zahira caught the eye of a serving girl and took some wine, bending low over the table to pour two glasses. She snuck glances at the Blood Knight, who was scanning the room slowly with his cold eyes. What in the nether, she thought to herself, will I talk to him about?

Finally she seated herself in the chair opposite, raising her glass in a silent toast. They both drank, Zahira taking dainty sips and Kalandris entirely draining his glass. "I believe I have seen you before," she said, "and I am surprised we have never spoken. I am curious – will you tell me about yourself, Sir?" She sat back, placing her hands in her lap demurely. That was always a good place to begin – get them talking about themselves.

"I would rather not." Came the reply, in the hoarse and deep voice. Distaste dripped from the words, causing Zahira to raise one elegant brow in inquiry.

"Sir?"

"I'd rather not," he repeated. "I am not interested in playing games, girl, nor spending the night with one such as you."

Unexpectedly the words stung. Zahira was used to – mostly – being treated with respect. "Sir." She repeated, her voice edged with indignation despite her efforts, "I am merely hired to make conversation and keep guests entertained. Say the word and I will leave you alone – but the fact is that I am curious and I really would like to know." By the time she'd finished speaking the words she realized it was true. His reticence had spurred curiosity in her.

Kalandris sighed deeply. Zahira reached for the wine bottle and poured him another. He stared at her with scarce-concealed dislike, but slid the glass toward him.

"You will not have seen me," he said, "because I spend my time on the battlefield, rather than wasting it in idle and decadent pursuits." As he spoke his eyes slid over the crowd once more, and his lip curled just slightly.

"As is obvious from your attire." Zahira put in, indicating him with a sweep of her hand. "But this is a wedding. Do you begrudge the people their celebration and leisure?"

"It surprises me to see such displays of frivolity at all."

Zahira closed her mouth in a slight pout. She'd begun to think she should just give up on speaking to this one. While he hadn't ordered her away, he certainly acted as if he would rather be alone. She leaned back to rest against the back of her chair and drained her own drink.

Beginning to feel rather miserable again, she regarded the Blood Knight. He was impossibly tense, stern and now stared at her again. She tried to focus on his eyes, distracted by his scarred visage. His whole face was covered by myriad old battle wounds, and part of his neck and jaw showing the scars of old burns. His nose had been broken before, losing the perfect straight angles of the typical elf.

"Does my face displease you?" He suddenly asked, shocking her out of her thoughts. Unbidden, her face flushed. He cocked his head almost imperceptibly, one long brow rising.

"No... Sir." She stammered, frustrated with herself. She decided that this was one of the rare occasions where honesty would be the best approach. "It is just... interesting to me. I don't meet so many men of your experience and stature." In truth she had no idea of his rank, but his demeanor had spoken volumes to her already. He nodded the briefest of nods, seemingly satisfied.

Conversation grew a little easier then as Zahira grew bolder and asked him questions. He told her about his work, recounted some of his more glorious past battles. She had the increasing sense that he had had little in his life besides war. She knew that such men existed, but had – obviously – seldom met them. She leaned her head in her hand, the wine forgotten. Her mouth open, as Nerezza ffwould say, "like a commoner". Whether Kalandris was normally boastful or whether he was pleased to have a listener she could not tell, but he recounted his tales with enthusiasm and vivid detail.

Zahira began to feel very, very insignificant.

They had been talking for a while, when the hall began to clear. Couples and groups staggering and swaggering as they left arm in arm. Others reclined in curtained alcoves, drunken and asleep or entwined in each-others arms. Barely visible under one silken drape was a tangle of many legs, writhing together.

Soon Kalandris was wearing an even worse scowl than before. Disappointed at seeing his somewhat more open manner recede, Zahira reached for her ebony pins. The elf's eyes snapped to her as she raised her arms and piled twists of her hair atop her head, securing them deftly. She smiled somewhat self-consciously, her hands dropping to her knees, and twisted her neck, bending her head gently forward.

She felt his eyes on her, was certain he was examining her tattooed skin, yet he did not move. Soon enough, Zahira's eyes drifted over to his face again, with an inquiring look.

Kalandris did indeed stare at her, but if he had any indication what her gesture had meant, he didn't mention it. Grasping his glass once more he drained the last mouthful, and dropped his hands to his weapons. "Well," he said, "this has been an... interesting diversion."

Zahira furrowed her brow, opening her mouth to speak, but he continued.

"I have delayed too long. I'm afraid I must go. I have work to do." His eyes flickered over her face once more, and he nodded to Zahira, then turned to leave.

She sat back with a huff and a slight sulk, watching his retreating form. "Goodbye!" She muttered sarcastically, then feeling slightly ashamed of herself, reached up to release the waves of hair around her face. Sighing, she stared into her empty glass.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

_You speak in riddles. Is that part of your routine?_

_Sometimes. I sing and dance, play instruments. From time to time, other things._

_Where can I see you entertain?_

_Unless you have an invitation, you cannot. It is not often I perform for the general public. I am sorry._

_Well, let me know when you do. Or can I get a private performance?_

_He had been passing by every day, just as he had before he'd found the notes. It had been some time, and the elf, whoever she may be, continued to reply to him – one note a day. Yesterday it had been an answer to his question._

_You could not afford me._

Iskander had laughed, throwing back his head, a deep, unrestrained and joyous sound. Then he had stood by the stone bench, and hastily scribbled his reply.

_You're probably right._

Today, it was late afternoon by the time the priest trotted down the road, on his way to the town of Southshore. His mind was still on the notes, wondering for the first time about the morality of it all. He was a devout servant of the Light, and he doubted very much that his Sin'dorei correspondent would have been thrilled to hear it. He hadn't lied, exactly... just written in orcish and neglected to mention that he happened to be human. It bothered him that he hadn't seen a problem in this until he had begun to think of meeting her.

Such a thing was of course impossible. He didn't know what this particular elf was like, but he had heard and read that the Sin'dorei were cold and ruthless, cruel and talented. And they hated humans. He didn't even know why he was considering it.

Iskander dragged his reluctant horse close to the Undercity and quickly stopped to check the old stone bench. He took from his pocket something he had picked up from the ground the previous day. A pretty shell, curved and white, the underside shining in many opalescent colors. He had been puzzled about how it came to be in the road, out of its element yet still undamaged, and kept it for this purpose. Now he held it in his hand as he pried apart the two loose stones.

I have strange news! I am to perform in a public audience with Lady Sylvanas, tomorrow, mid night. Your lucky day I suppose!

His heart skipped a beat. How strangely coincidental. But then... Impossible! There was no way he could think of for him to get into the Undercity. Yet he did not want to disappoint - or let her think he wasn't interested. He grabbed his charcoal, putting it to his mouth for a moment, leaving a dark smudge there.

Scrawling a reply and folding it now around the small gift, he pushed it quickly back between the stones.

_I am not sure if I can make it, but I will try to be there._

An understatement, for Iskander was sure that if he tried to enter the city he would finish the day at the end of a guard's sword. Yet he was equally certain that he would try nonetheless. Hastily stuffing charcoal into his pocket he took a kind of running jump onto his horse's back. The startled and highly unimpressed beast snorted and jerked her head up, and Iskander laughed aloud as he urged her into a fast trot.

The priest had spent most of his life in Stormwind. Even as a child he had known he would be a priest. By the time he was sixteen he had been initiated into the church as an apprentice. He'd had very little experience of the outside world, and was satisfied until even the priests had encouraged him to stretch his wings. In these days one had to know how to fight - so fight he had.

Quite proficient in combat and the healing arts by his twenty-eighth year, Iskander was as sure of himself as any young man. But when relating to other people, he was completely hopeless. Always assuming the best in everyone, trusting, cheerful... and endlessly naïve. That naïve part of him still liked to hope that this mystery elf was different – or that he had had been mistaken about the Sin'dorei altogether.

Iskander stood, leaning against the bookshelves, ankles crossed and trying to look casual.

Brother Jeffries - the old scholar - paused, quill to his lips. His voice was shaky and hesitant. "Aside from such items as an Orb of Deception... which are quite rare and expensive.."

"Yes, yes... anything more?" Iskander said, rubbing his chin and rolling his eyes impatiently.

"Well... alchemists are quite talented these days. I have heard a few claim to have achieved an elixir of invisibility. What you seek may be possible." Jeffries paused, and looked askance at the younger priest. "I can't think of anything else, my boy. You... you are not thinking of doing anything stupid, are you?"

"Oh me?" Iskander laughed, throwing his head back. "Brother, you know me better than that!"

The rest of the day was spent searching for anything that could aid him. Finally he found elixirs of invisibility and an admittedly dubious "experimental" potion that was supposed to distort the perception of the viewer. Iskander had spent most of his meager coin on the items.

He needn't have worried about getting in – at least not on this particular night. There were many elves standing around, and entering through the gates, when Iskander arrived. The Forsaken guards barely looked at him, seeing a ragged Forsaken man, and the elves steered well clear, seeing a strange and disheveled Sin'dorei.

He tried to stay with the general flow of the visitors, as it belatedly occurred to him that he had no idea where he was going. Nice job, Iskander, wander into an enemy city with no plan, he mentally kicked himself. As it turned out, there wasn't far to go – the guests milled around just inside where the old stone throne sat. He couldn't help but scan the crowd, wondering if Zahira was among them.

"I and my sisters are easily recognizable," she had once written, "for one – by our bare feet." So he kept his eyes directed downward, but none of these elaborately dressed elves matched that requirement.

The dimly lit hall was soon filled with guests, and they began to fill the outer area as well. A great many elves and forsaken, and the occasional orc or troll. Iskander almost trembled when he brushed up against a towering tauren – closer than he had ever seen before.

Music was played, and afterwards, dancers appeared. Immediately, Iskander knew what Zahira had meant by easily recognizable. The Sin'dorei women were dressed identically – blood-red skirts, so much golden jewelery that they clinked as they walked, and bare feet. When they danced, Iskander saw that the soles of those feet were painted or tattooed with some kind of floral pattern. While their costumes were similar, the ladies themselves were as different as night and day. Dark and light-haired, pale and tanned, blonde and red, lithe and curved... Iskander gulped, a strange tightness in his throat.

He mashed himself up against the back wall, feeling conspicuous and out of place. Drawing his dark cloak around his body, and the hood over his face, he scanned the dancers, wondering. How was he to know which one was she?

After they were finished, the women passed through the crowd, pouring wine. Iskander blushed and stared at the ground as one of them smiled at him and passed him a glass. He had partaken of alcohol only on a couple of occasions, but he did now, since it had been offered to him by such a lovely being.

Then a song - clear and strong Thalassian words. Iskander could not understand, but the voice was amazing to his ears. He looked for the singer, and saw her in the corner, attended by a male and female elf, each in shining red armor and armed with long polearms. Her face was lovely – as most of the Sin'dorei women were. She had long waves of smoky hair and those bright, almost glowing green eyes. He wondered if this were Zahira.

The song did not last long enough for Iskander's taste, and he saw the elven woman grow still. Guests turned their attention back to each other, chattering in their various languages, and began milling around again. As the crowd before him parted, Iskander managed to get an uninterrupted view of the singer. Now she stood on tiptoe – and scanned the room, looking for something.

Iskander backed against the wall again, suddenly afraid. If the singer were indeed Zahira, he couldn't let her see him. While part of him wanted to speak with her, he had no idea if his "disguise" would hold up to close scrutiny. And if he were discovered here, he was sure he'd be torn apart by guards – not to mention the crowd. Instead, he found a corner where he was out of sight, and drank down one of his invisibility potions. Then he decided to make his escape, before his luck could run out.

Thanking the Light for his safe arrival back at his little house, Iskander curled into his warm bed. He blew out the candle and stared at the ceiling. In his eyes still swam visions of elven females, red and gold, with green eyes. He knew he had seen her, knew somehow in his heard that she had been the singer with the magnificent voice. It still echoed in his ears.

Conflicting emotions wracked his mind. He barely knew the woman – didn't know her. But he did know that he had crossed a line tonight, and that he couldn't go back. Something had grabbed him and he felt he was being pulled under some invisible wave. What had she done to him? Was she some kind of siren, whos song had put him under some spell?

Tossing and turning, the priest tried to sleep, tried to get the images out of his mind. He was at a loss. The one thing he was certain of, was that he had to speak with her.


End file.
